


Show me your country // I'll be still and quiet

by JoCarthage



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Body Horror, Cooking, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Season 2 spoilers, Self Care, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23391016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: Alex drives home late after a day at work; post 2x2.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 28
Kudos: 139





	Show me your country // I'll be still and quiet

**Author's Note:**

> So @stalllme tagged me in a tumblr thing about sharing songs and mentioned that "Canyon" by Joseph is a Malex song she enjoys and I've listened to it, oh, 30 or 40 times since then (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDr9zcsviBs). I put it on a loop and this is what came out. The title is from it. 
> 
> This piece is a good, old-fashioned episode response fic. 
> 
> Note: As a bi woman, I know how much reasoning like Alex tries to make in the 6th paragraph can hurt to read. He's trying to think through a situation without actually touching the people in it, and we can all be harsh when we're hurting.

Alex taps his fist against the wheel, knowing he's edging up to 90 and not caring; it isn't like Sheriff Valenti is writing tickets on this stretch of highway between Roswell and his house.

_Michael likes Maria._

He closes his eyes, seeing a deer, a massive tumble weed -- and forces them open again.

_Michael likes Maria._

Well, who didn't? Maria is great. Smart and kind, a good boss and a good daughter. He wonders if it's the hair -- he rifles his knuckles across his newly regulated haircut and then snatches his hand down.

It isn't like he isn't used to thinking about it. It isn't complicated math: most bi people ended up with other-gendered partners. There are a lot more straight people looking for partners, particularly in a place like Roswell that had bled its queer kids off into the cities for decades. _Partner up early, or stay single for life with occasional drives into El Paso or Albuquerque for the nightlife._ Those had been the paths he'd seen at 17. He never thought he'd be on the second one; or that he would spend a millisecond longer in this dustpit than he'd been forced to.

God, he wishes he could call Maria.

_Or Liz? Maybe Liz would understand._

_Hey Liz, can we talk about boy problems? Oh, your one-and-currently is dead in a pod and all you want to do is talk about him? Sorry, I'll just shelve my heart for your convenience_.

Mimi had told him once that if you hated everyone, you needed to sleep. If every hated you, you needed to eat.

He thinks about what he has at his house: probably enough calories to take his meds and enough of a bed to sleep in.

He feels it then, the weight, the pressure against his chest, the painful crunch of things moving that aren't supposed to move. He remembers it from his first broken arm, his leg; it isn't the pain that gets him bad -- it's the sound. The crunch of bones is like chewing on a sandy fork.

He blinks hard, once, feeling his phone vibrate. He lets his emotions subside, fade into back alleys, ready to shank him again.

He wishes he could hope the text was someone who wants to talk to him, not to Captain Manes. 

It all circles back to the shed, doesn't it? Why didn't he take Michael's offer to go and make out in the back of his truck on some desert siding?He was too proud. That was always the problem, wasn't it? He was too proud. Proud he'd provided. Proud he'd helped. 

A tiny part of him whispers it had been _Michael_ to suggest the shed; but hadn't that been his fault too? Michael had always been so eager to please and he knew how proud Alex was of the shed, of being able to make a space where someone -- just one fucking person, just once -- was safe from fists and glares and sage-and-creosote-scented desert cold.

Alex had gasped into Michael's mouth, back pressed hot against the corrugated steel wall of the UFO Emporium's crash-landing exhibit, 17-year-old body reacting to everything, wild and free. He'd whispered in the bare space between them: "Want -- want to go someplace?"

Michael had pulled back, fingers still tight in his black hair, "My truck? The shed?"

Alex had closed his eyes and hummed, leaning in for another soft-hard, wet-slick taste of Michael Guerin's mouth.

He'd felt that plush mouth curl against his: "Shed then."

Alex shakes his head against the memory, smacking his palm against the dash, letting the sting of it remind him where he is, how much longer aches last, for all age and experience and hurt so many more times makes the initial sting more manageable.

_Michael likes Maria._

He pulls into his driveway, snatching at the glimpse of stars he could see over the roof. They are there; they are still there. Nothing could take that away. The smell of sage and creosote; nothing could take that away either. The pain when he stepped down onto his prosthetic; pain and anger, those were his very own. He felt like he'd invented them when he was 13; had certainly perfected them since then. 

But the only way to stay perfect was to practice, so he says it again, once, under his breath:

"Michael likes Maria."

His voice sounds like he'd been throat-punched or recently fucked and god, he didn't even have the energy to think about which one of those memories hurt worse right now. He grips his keys between his fingers the way women were taught to in cut-rate self-defense classes, digging the sharp edges of them into the rare soft skin he had left. He opens his door, bumps it closed with his shoulder, and lets out a choked breath into the silent dark.

He leans against the pale wall and hitches his phone out of his pocket. It's from Maria.

> _Maria: Can we talk_

He closes his eyes. He thinks -- _I could pretend I didn't see it?_ He has read receipts off because, honestly, it was nobody's business but his own how long he takes to respond to messages. He looks at the icon: their smiling faces, the Pony's bar in the background. He feels that boot against his chest.

He wants to text: _We really, really can't._

But the only way he'd ever gotten the world to be kinder was to go first. Go first, go first, over and over and over again. It didn't always work, but it left him feeling less like a hollowed-out, Hulked-out shell than when he let his pettiness lead.

So he replies: "Sure, when I pick you up for flier canvassing tomorrow morning?"

> _Maria: "yeah. g'night. I love you."_
> 
> _Alex: "You too."_

And he did. He does.

Michael may like Maria, but Alex loves her. 

She and Mimi had given him shelter, hope and home. She'd called and texted and damn near broken down his door when everyone pretended he should be fine with the weight of medals on his chest counterbalancing where his leg should be. She'd get better, remember to treat him better. He promises himself, if she brings up Michael, he'll try to lower his wall just enough to let her see how much it hurts. Maybe that will warn her off.

> _Maria: Sleep well, Alex._
> 
> _Alex: Unlikely :)_
> 
> _Maria: Kick those nightmares' asses._
> 
> _Alex: (_ ง _'̀-'́)_ ง
> 
> _Maria: Hahaha_

It was old-hat, loving someone who hurt him. But it was the best he knew how to do.

And maybe Michael would come around. He'd seen through Alex's 'it's just work' plans about as easily as he'd guessed where Alex wanted to make-out. 

He looks through the window, catching sight of the stars again. He takes the first full breath he could remember in hours and levers himself back off the wall. It's late, and he needs to eat before he takes his pills, but he pulls open the fridge door, piling milk and eggs on the counter, dragging his stale loaf of bread from the back of the counter. He puts the pan on the stove, cracks off a piece of butter from his freezer stash into the pan, the smell warming the night-cool house. He slips the big mixing bowl off of his drying rack and cracks the eggs into it, mixes in milk and cinnamon and just a little bit of nutmeg. He lets the eggs wash over his fingers, making them slimy and whole and alive.

He makes himself use the spatula, since the sting of oil burns isn't something any amount of experience make less painful. He watches the french toast sizzle to a golden-brown that he refuses to liken to anyone's eyes, anyone's bar top.

He's going to care for himself tonight, and every night until his friends decide to be less shitty.

It's not like anyone else is going to do it.

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are *a lot of feelings* about the current Malex situation. But I really think Alex loves Maria and also, everyone is being less than their best selves right now (except Kyle, who's being great). I'm not tagging Miluca bc folks in that tag are looking for supportive fics and this is, neutral. I believe Malex will be endgame but everyone needs to Work On Themselves a bit. 
> 
> Looking forward to the next ep!


End file.
